Ending Grief
by Russell Landen
Summary: Post-Reichenbach: John has no choice but to get a new roommate to help pay rent at 221B. It hurts him, but he soon finds solace in his new flatmate, Sebastian Moran; another soldier like himself. Sherlock is living in the streets of New Delhi; confused, alone, and haunted by an addiction that could cost him his life. Filled with angst/sex/drugs/and finally: love.
1. Part 1 Chapter 1: John

**_Ending Grief_**

**_Part I_**

**__**_AN: There is a lot of angst, sex, drug-use, and multi-shipping in this fic. You are warned. _

* * *

It wasn't some naïve discomfort that drove John from the steps of 221B and into his sister's flat. Yes, he may have been a sentimentalist, but his reason for leaving had nothing to do with devotion– rather, it had to do with hate.

Hearing the door to the flat open and having such irrational feeling of hope every time could have driven John to the brink of madness. The flat was so quiet, and in the past when John had been thankful for such solitude, he was now nothing less then enraged. Even Mrs. Hudson couldn't fix his loneliness, and perhaps she even made it worse.

So John packed only a few items of clothing, mumbled of his quick return to Mrs. Hudson, and left Baker Street for the next six months.

Harry was probably over excited when John got to her flat. They had just recently gotten back on talking terms, but she seemed nothing but comfortable.

"I see you've been drinking again," John said softly as he spotted a whiskey flask on the coffee table.

Harry turned to him excitably. "Actually, that's empty."

"I'm sure it is."

"Don't be so cross, John. It's been empty. I keep it empty. Every time I come down the stairs after I wake up, or anytime I go up the stairs, or if I'm just sitting on the couch, I see an empty flask in my reach. And I force myself to turn my head or keep walking," she smiled at him. "It gets easier each time."

John wondered how reliable this method of sobriety was, but he only smiled and nodded. Soon enough his sister would be depressed again and she would walk by the flask and want to fill it up again. That's how she worked. But for the time being, John was proud of her.

John awoke one day to his mobile phone ringing beside his head. He lifted himself slowly and looked at the caller ID.

It was Mrs. Hudson, calling for the fifth time that weekend. Except this time it was six in the morning.

"Hello?" John said as he rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes.

"John," Mrs. Hudson cried.

"What? What is it? Is something wrong?" John asked. He sat up in his bed. That horrific feeling of hope swelled up in him– along with a feeling of fear.

"Please come back, John," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's hard without a man about the house. I'm old, John, you can't just leave me to clean this entire flat by myself!" Her original sound of pity changed to annoyance quickly.

John rubbed his eyes again. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. You're right, that was…was so wrong of me to leave you alone like that. I'll come back today."

He got up to shower and stripped his clothes off one by one. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles.

His nightmares had returned since Sherlock's death. They made him tense throughout his body, and even his limp, which he thought would never heed his steps again, returned full force. He knew it was psychosomatic. That's what made it so bloody painful.

John leaned his arm against the tiled walls of the shower. He let his weight fall onto the wall and he sighed as the pain in his leg receded. But the thought of returning to Baker Street made it tight again. He sighed heavily.

"John, are you showering?" Harry called through the bathroom door.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'll leave you a towel right here," she said.

"Harry, I'm going back to Baker Street today," he commented quickly. He knew that the bathroom was not the most appropriate place for this conversation, but he didn't really want to see Harry's face.

"Oh?"

"Mrs. Hudson… I really shouldn't have left her," John chuckled. "Poor woman. She was so used to having two men around the house that–"

His words stopped half-way in his throat. _Two men..._

"Well, that's fine, John. Just promise to visit more, alright?" she responded quietly.

"Yeah…yeah, I'll be sure to."

Mrs. Hudson hugged him when he walked through the door of 221B Baker Street. He patted her softly on the back in return. She offered to make him some tea while he unpacked, and he graciously accepted.

His room was cold when he entered it, but everything was in the same place as when he left. He placed his suitcase on the bed and stood to look out the window.

Somehow it amazed him how busy London could be. It never ended its bustle, even after tragedy. The city seemed to be stuck in a never-ending loop of confusion– like a rat in a maze. John's world had stopped when Sherlock died, why had nobody else's? It wasn't even on the news anymore. People soon found another conspiracy or tragedy to take hold of. It seemed, for the first time in six months, that Sherlock Holmes really was dead.

Soon, Mrs. Hudson called John down for tea. As they sat together, Mrs. Hudson discussed all the things that had been going on while John was away. There was something about the neighbor's flat catching on fire, and something about Lestrade visiting to ask when you'd be home, and many other subjects John wasn't very interested in. However, he nodded and smiled and laughed at the appropriate times anyway.

"I've put an ad out in the papers for a new flatmate," Mrs. Hudson said suddenly.

John almost dropped his cup. "Sorry?"

"Well, I have bills, John, and I can't pay them by myself. You've been gone for six months after all–"

"I paid you rent while I was away," John said.

"Yes, but there's no way you'll be able to pay for this whole flat by yourself! I'm helping you, John."

He shook his head. "I'm not ready."

"Well, you better get ready, then," Mrs. Hudson stood and grabbed her empty teacup. "Because I need a new tenant!"

She stomped away and left John sitting at the table. He blinked, still a little shocked at her hastiness. Perhaps she was right and they did need a new flat member.

"Will I get any say in this?" John asked.

She turned from the sink. "Of course you will! They will be your flatmate. I'll let you do the main interviewing, how about that? I'll ask them some basic questions but I'll leave you with the hard stuff."

John nodded. "Sounds fair enough."


	2. Part 1 Chapter 2: Sherlock

**Ending Grief**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

The streets of New Delhi were usually filled with people, but as Sherlock Holmes walked back to his flat there wasn't a soul in sight. It didn't frighten him, really. Loneliness wasn't a stranger and it never had been. He only pulled his hood over his head as to not draw attention to himself. White men were often jumped in the part of town that he lived.

His landlord stopped him halfway up the stairs to his flat.

"Rent is tomorrow," he said.

"I'm aware," Sherlock sighed.

The landlord stared down at him.

"And I have the money to pay you," Sherlock responded to his stares.

"Since when do you have money?" the landlord chuckled.

"As of now," Sherlock said and pulled out a wad of rupees from his jacket pocket.

The landlord's eyes widened. Sherlock brushed past him and into his flat.

He put the money inside a small safe that was underneath his bed. The safe was almost to full capacity. Sherlock sat back on his bed and looked up at his cracked, unpainted ceiling. His head and throat were throbbing horribly as he tried to stare calmly at the slow turning ceiling fan above him. Soon it was obvious he was putting off an inevitable outcome– something that he never tried to do. With a shaky hand he reached for his nightstand's drawer, where inside was a small black case. He sighed as he opened it, remembering that he had kept a promise to someone that he would soon be breaking. He broke it the first day he left London.

Inside the black case was a small package of heroine, a syringe, and a rubber band. He took off his jacket and wrapped the rubber band around his upper arm. It alarmed him how shaky his hands were– would it be safe to try and measure the correct dosage? In all honesty he didn't care what "safe" was anymore. _Sometimes the anticipation of dying is better than the anticipation of waiting, _he thought to himself and he placed his equipment beside the stove.

The crystallized heroine cooked rapidly on the spoon that Sherlock placed it on. The smell sent a wave of anxiety and pain through Sherlock's body. He carefully reached or his syringe and placed it over the spoon. It drank up the liquefied drug like a man dying of thirst.

He sat in his usual seat and placed the needle in his arm. He sighed as it punctured him– even small amounts of pain were soothing. The drug burned as it entered his system, and it wasn't long before Sherlock's mind reacted. He sat still for a long time allowing it to take full affect.

For the first thirty minutes, Sherlock just stared across the room looking towards the door as if he was waiting for someone to come in. He wanted rescuing. He wanted Someone to drain the poison from his veins.

But no one ever came.

Sherlock felt his heart racing. Why was nobody there? What had he done to make people desert him? He stood breathlessly and walked toward the door. It seemed like the walk was endless. Finally, he felt the cold of the door handle before he even saw it. Was it even there? He looked down and chuckled happily to himself when he saw his hand wrapped tightly around the handle.

He began to open the door, but when he heard voices outside he quickly closed it. He hoped– for a short second– that it was Someone coming to save him. But even with the drug clouding his mind he realized the illogic of his thoughts.

"You wont see him again," Sherlock said calmly to himself. "You cannot see him again."

A wave of anxiety filled him again. He attempted to calm his mind.

"In fifteen more minutes you'll feel nothing but euphoria," he said. "Calm down. Don't think of things you cannot change."

He sat on his bed and stared at the door again. He tried to imagine Someone walking through it and seeing him. They would be happy to see him. They would hug him tightly and get the poison out. Then, perhaps, Sherlock would never have to take the poison again. He could keep living like he used to.

The thoughts calmed Sherlock's mind. He laid down and let the feeling of softness and calmness fill his panicked mind.

He slowly fell asleep. Dreaming of Someone who could save him– the only person who could save him.


	3. Part 1 Chapter 3: The Meeting

__**Ending Grief**

**Chapter 3**

_AN: I'd just like to point out that I had no intention of disrespecting soldiers in the beginning of this chapter. These are just my thoughts on John's feelings. _

* * *

The interviewing gave John a headache. He felt that as each new potential flatmate entered 221B, he sized them up to Sherlock– which obviously wouldn't get the job done. Nobody could be Sherlock, or even remotely close to what he was.

Mrs. Hudson told John to be a little more open-minded. "You don't need to fall in love with the person! They just have to live with you," she would laugh. John felt a lump in her throat at her choice of words.

But he decided that all in all, she was right. Getting a new flatmate was a necessity– not an option unless he wanted to move out for good. But that thought caused more pain inside John then perhaps anything else since the Fall. Leaving 221B would be like forgetting the most important part in his life. Living there was really the only time he was proud of what he was doing. When he was in war, pride was the last thing he felt, which was a bit ironic to him.

Typically, when you fight for your country, pride is something people expect you to feel. "Oh, you must be so proud of what you did over there!" people would say. But throughout his whole time in the Middle East– John Watson never met a man or woman who was proud to be there.

He was a doctor first; secondly, a soldier. And when you are in the business of saving lives, but are forced to mindlessly kill people in your defense, something changes in you. John knew that was what gave him (what his therapist called) Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It wasn't the killing– any man can do that when need be– it was the killing then saving; and the saving then killing; and the killing while saving. It can rot a man quickly John had realized. And if at any moment in his life he felt pride for doing those things, then he wasn't the man he thought he was.

John was in the checkout line at the grocery when Mrs. Hudson called him. He sighed as he rummaged around his jacket pockets for his phone.

"Hello?" he said.

"John! Remember that fellow who called the other day to come look at the flat?" Mrs. Hudson replied.

"Which one?" John sighed again.

"The only one you've talked to on the phone, dear,"

John quickly remembered. He typically let Mrs. Hudson talk to all the potentials, but once while she was out she gave him the phone duties. He had gotten a call two days before from a man who said he lived on the other side of London and was looking for somewhere cheaper to stay. He had a quiet, deep voice John remembered. John told him to come by the flat when he had a chance and they could talk in person.

"Yes, I remember," John said.

"Well, he's here now and desperately wants to meet with you!"

John told her he would arrive as quickly as he could. Once he checked out he caught a cab to Baker Street.

He walked in cautiously, not wanting to drop the paper sacks full of food he carried in his arms. He was juggling the bags plus his cane while trying to ignore the pain in his leg. John heard Mrs. Hudson laughing hysterically upstairs.

"Oh, John! Let me help you!" Mrs. Hudson cried as John limped up the last step.

"No, no! Absolutely not," John pushed her away politely as he headed toward the kitchen. He didn't dare look at the man on the couch. He allowed his mind to slightly wander away from reality as he hoped that maybe it was Sherlock in some stupid disguise, coming to surprise him and give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. The idea made him smile and hurt at the same time.

Once he walked back into the living room, the man stood from his seat. He was tall and thin (very much like Sherlock), but he had light brown, almost reddish hair, and a trimmed beard running from ear to ear. He held a cigarette between his two first fingers, and John caught himself staring at it.

The man looked down at his hand embarrassedly. "Oh, sorry. Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked John. His voice was cool and collected.

"No, that's perfectly alright. I'm John Watson," John said and put out his hand.

"Sebastian Moran," the man smiled and took John's hand in his. Sebastian glanced at the cane in John's hand, but his eyes reverted back to John's eyes almost immediately.

While John was not a master at deduction, living with Sherlock did give him some insight into the science. As he shook Sebastian's hand, John knew immediately that he was a soldier. The handshake was firm, and his finger had a callus on it obviously formed by the trigger of a gun. Sherlock could have probably told him what type of gun Sebastian had shot. John wasn't that good yet.

"Where were you stationed?" John asked almost unintentionally.

Sebastian looked shocked for a moment, but a smile quickly spread over his face. "Afghanistan. Are you a solder as well?"

"Was one. Afghanistan also," John said.

Sebastian's smile grew wider. "Well, then. We already have something in common."

"Well, I think I'll go make some tea!" Mrs. Hudson said as she walked toward the kitchen.

The two men sat down across from each other while Mrs. Hudson gave them their tea. They talked about a variety of subjects: from the war to politics. John was amazed at how much they indeed had in common.

"You haven't even seen the flat yet," John pointed out as he realized how quickly the hour passed.

"Oh, quite right," Sebastian sipped at his tea.

"I'll show you around," John said.

They walked around the entire flat twice. John showed him the inside of every drawer and room– minus one. They laughed and conversed as they went, until finally they walked to the door.

"This is very nice," Sebastian said as he pulled down the hem of his jacket.

"Yes, I like to think so."

"But," Sebastian grinned, "you never showed me where I'd be staying."

John's stomach dropped in embarrassment. "Oh, god. You're right, I'm sorry, follow me."

They went back up the stairs and down the hall to the main bedroom in the flat. John hesitated by the door. He didn't want to open in it. He feared what was inside.

Sebastian looked down at John and chuckled slightly. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. A cold breeze blew out and hit John. He shook.

"And who lived here before?" Sebastian asked as he looked at the Periodic Table taped against the wall.

"Um," John hesitated. "His name was Sherlock."

He waited for Sebastian to recognize the name– to start asking questions. But he didn't. The other man only nodded.

"Interesting name. Victorian, is it?" he asked John.

"I really don't know."

"Well, anyhow," Sebastian said as he walked passed John and down the hallway. "I must be on my way. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson."

"My pleasure, dear!" was her reply from the kitchen.

John followed Sebastian down the stairs and to the door. "I'll call you soon…if you're still interested in the flat, that is," John said.

Sebastian smiled at him. "I am very interested, Mr. Watson. Call me anytime."

He put on a black fedora and walked out the door. John watched him through the peephole for a short time. He watched Sebastian wrap his dark blue scarf around his neck. Sebastian pulled out a cigarette and lit it before he continued down the street. John's eyes followed him until he was out of view. Perhaps he had found someone tolerable enough to live with, after all.


	4. Part 1 Chapter 4: Needing

**Ending Gried**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

When Sherlock awoke he was lying on the floor of his flat. Slowly, he got to his knees and groaned loudly at the pain in his head. He felt awfully sick– sicker then he normally did after being that high.

"Feeling alright?" a voice asked him.

Sherlock jumped and looked behind him. Mycroft was sitting on the torn, stained sofa on the other side of the room. He stared blankly at Sherlock before getting up and walking towards his brother's bed. Sherlock was still halfway on the ground when Mycroft slowly walked passed him. Sherlock's eyes followed him carefully.

Mycroft picked up the small black case that held Sherlock's muse. He stared inside it calmly. "Did anyone ever tell you that this stuff kills?"

"So does falling off buildings," Sherlock rebutted.

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Humorous." He set the case back on the nightstand.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as he got to his feet.

"Checking up on my assets."

"And how am I an asset, exactly?"

Mycroft turned toward his brother. His eyes softened slightly when he saw him. Sherlock was thin–too thin. The drugs and sleepless nights wore down his face to skeleton like features. It made Mycroft slightly sick. "You're my brother," he finally said softly.

Sherlock ignored the comment and walked toward his kitchen. "Want something to eat?"

"No, thank you, I ate on the plane," Myrcoft replied.

"Isn't a little risky for you to fly down to New Delhi so often?" Sherlock asked. "People might ask questions…"

"About?"

"Me."

Mycroft laughed. "I think those drugs are making you a little too paranoid. You're still dead, you know."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked blankly as he poured himself cereal.

"Of course. That Molly girl did a wonderful job of faking your certificate of death. Those things are too easy to fraud. But Irene Adler can tell you that."

Sherlock hesitated at the name. He picked up his cereal and walked toward the table. "Ah."

"You really thought I wouldn't figure out she wasn't _really _dead?" Mycroft snorted.

Sherlock only smiled.

"And I assume you've been seeing her?" Mycroft continued.

"Seeing her? I'm not alive, remember?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "But neither is she."

Sherlock stared up at his brother. It hadn't really crossed his mind (why would it?) that he and Irene could see each other again. He wasn't sure what he could need her for…besides one thing– her professional skills. Sherlock had never really _needed_ sex until he moved away from 221B. Since his time in New Delhi (and it could partly have to do with the heroine) he became exceptionally hungry for sexual release. He masturbated often; sometimes without even thinking about anything– just mindless, primitive release.

But more often then not, he would think of Someone. While he lived in 221B, the thought of sex with…him…had never really crossed his mind. Sex with anybody never crossed his mind. After he left, however, sex was constantly thought provoking.

"Is there anything you need before I go?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked up from his daze. "Oh, yes. Money."

Mycroft chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"I'm sure you have plenty of it. With your new occupation, and all," Mycroft pointed to the black case on the nightstand. "Besides. If I give you money you'll just buy more of that poison."

Sherlock stared at him blankly. He didn't try to deny anything; he knew what Mycroft was saying was true. He was neck deep in a deadly addiction and it was all because he wanted to be.

Mycroft sighed and got out his checkbook. He knew that if he didn't give Sherlock money it would either be starve and die, or sell more drugs and get shot. He placed the check on the nightstand and walked towards the door.

"Goodbye, brother. Try and keep yourself healthy."

Sherlock sat in his spot for a while after Mycroft left. His cereal got soggy while he sat there, and since his appetite was gone anyway, he threw it out.

He began to think about what Mycroft was saying about Irene. Sherlock found himself really wanting to see her, but he had no way to contact her…

Then he had an idea.

Sherlock got his laptop from underneath his bed and plugged the Ethernet cable into it. The Internet was slow and it made Sherlock impatient, but finally he landed on Irene's website, which he noticed hadn't been updated since the time of her "death".

He clicked the "Contact if you dare" button on the left-hand side of the screen and typed a quick message:

_Hello. I am in urgent need of your services. I am LOCKED up at the moment and unable to come to you. You can find me at this IP address. Goodbye, Miss Adler. _

Sent.

Sherlock took another quick dose of heroine (a bit smaller than the last time) and laid in his bed. His mind began to wander. If Irene did find him…what exactly could they do? Sherlock knew he wasn't exactly interested in the "dominatrix" idea, per say. He liked to be in control.

Since he had been in New Delhi, he had used countless prostitutes– male and female. Being in the "drug circle" gave you a complimentary membership into the "prostitution circle". It wasn't the first time Sherlock had sex– but it was the first time he experimented. Typically he found he was more sexually attracted to men, but women did have their usefulness.

But when it came down to the truth, no matter how much Sherlock wanted to deny it, having sex with Irene had nothing to do with "sexual experimentation". He could do that with anybody in New Delhi. He wanted Irene– and it may sound odd– because sex with her was the closest he could get to having sex with John. Perhaps it made him morbid, but when he thought of Irene he thought of John, and while the sex would be very different, they could make it work.

Sherlock's thoughts were starting to take a physical form. When he was high, he got aroused a lot faster.

He imagined John coming in the door to his flat– Mycroft had finally told him the truth! John came to his bed and knelt beside it. He had missed Sherlock so much…he needed Sherlock. Sherlock took him up onto the bed and held him. John began kissing his neck, repeating over and over how much he hated Sherlock for leaving– how much he loathed Sherlock for hurting him like that.

_How could you have lied to me?_

"It was to keep you safe," Sherlock whispered, stroking John's hair.

_You bastard. _

"I'm sorry…if things could have been different–"

_Then what? _

John looked up at him and touched Sherlock face softly.

_If things were different, what?_

"I…I would have held you like this sooner."

John kissed Sherlock softly on the cheek. _I need you…_

Sherlock's erection began to be painful underneath his pants. He pulled them down and stroked his penis through his underwear– imaging that is was John. He moaned loudly as his mind played tricks on him. Was John there or not? But it didn't matter– it made the pressure in his abdomen only build up more.

He imagined John taking his dick in his hand and moving it slowly up and down. Sherlock bucked his hips into his hand.

Sherlock lifted his hand from his body momentarily. He reached for a small tube of lubricant that was in the drawer of his nightstand. Once his hand was lubed up, he pressed it against his cock again. He imagined that it was John sucking on him. His hand clenched tighter around his cock, and his hips were moving in a perfect rhythm. Soon, he felt the pressure in abdomen get tighter. He questioned whether or not he should just stop and take his hand away. Then his orgasm would be so much more intense…

But he couldn't. His hand kept pumping and soon hot cum was pouring down it. He moaned loudly as it happened, wanting desperately to say John's name– but his voice wouldn't allow it.

He laid panting on his bed as his orgasm ceased. He fell asleep shortly after, but soon awoke when his computer made a faint beeping noise. He looked at it and saw that he had an email. He smiled.

_I'm coming, Mr. Holmes. _


	5. Part 1 Chapter 5: Two Halves

**Ending Grief**

**Chapter 5**

* * *

John stared at his mobile phone blankly, unsure of what to do. Mrs. Hudson and he had chosen Mr. Moran as the new live-in, and she had given John the job of ringing him and telling him the good news. But he only laid in his and stared at the device in his hands.

He was nervous– a stupid feeling which John and learned long ago not to feel. Often, though, certain emotions got the best of him, and this was one of those occasions. He felt idiotic for feeling such things. He was going to call, tell Sebastian they'd love to have him move-in, and hang up. It was that simple.

Finally, he took a breath and dialed the number Mrs. Hudson had given him. It rang for a few moments and John wondered whether or not he should just hand up.

"Hello?"

"Um– hello, yes, is this Mr. Moran?" John stammered.

A chuckle. "Yes." His voice was cool and collected.

"This is John Watson from Baker Street."

"Oh, John! How nice to hear from you," Sebastian said happily from the other line.

John heard Sebastian mumble something to someone else. "Are you busy? I can call you back in a few."

"No, no! That wont be necessary. Just walking out of a meeting is all."

John then told him that he and Mrs. Hudson would like him to live in 221B, if he was still interested, of course. Sebastian exclaimed his delight in the news and the two men planned when Sebastian would move in.

Once they got off the phone, John felt a happy glow inside of him– something he hadn't felt in a while. He then realized that there wasn't an actual place for Sebastian to move into. Nobody ever came to collect Sherlock's things.

John uncomfortably entered the bedroom that he had avoided for so many months. He started to unpack the closet and set the clothes in storage boxes that Mrs. Hudson owned. Every item of clothing he touched sent a surge of pain through him, but he controlled himself. Once he walked out of the room with the boxes, he realized he had been holding his breath, and he exhaled sharply. The breath came out as a weak wheeze. John thought he was about to fall over when Mrs. Hudson came and took one of the boxes.

"I didn't know you hadn't done this yet," she said quietly as they walked to the basement.

"Never got around to it," John said.

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him. She set down the box beside the basement door and touched his arm softly. "Everything happens for a reason, John."

He laughed slightly to hold back his tears. The boxes he was holding in his hands were all he had left of Sherlock, and he was about to lock them away in the basement. It hurt more than it should have. John knew how irrational he was being. He knew that if Sherlock were there he would not approve. But sometimes painful feelings are someone's only solace, and once they finished putting the boxes away, John went to his room and sobbed in his pillow.

Throughout their entire time living in 221B, John had been ignoring his feelings. Not completely perhaps, but he had put his desires in the back of his mind and always let Sherlock lead the way. Now Sherlock was gone and John felt like he was lost. He loved Sherlock– more than he thought was possible. It was a deeper love than friendship, or even sex. It was like he and Sherlock were one being that was separated forever, and it was physically painful for him.

As John laid in bed, he remembered something he read back in college: "In Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. They came in all combinations: male, female; female, female; and male, male. The gods were proud of what they created, until humanity began to attempt to be as powerful as the gods themselves. Zeus then split the humans in half to diminish their strength, and sent the two halves in separate directions. Since then, now only walking on two legs, humans have searched the globe trying to find their other half in hopes of being complete again."

When he had first read that, John laughed. Such petty romanticism in those words. He never understood how someone could feel like they were physically torn apart from someone– until Sherlock was physically torn away from him.

He clenched the pillowcase above his head and closed his eyes.

"Tomorrow's a new day," he told himself reassuringly as tears ran down his face.


End file.
